


Animal Behaviour

by levitatethis



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Community: oz_graffit, Gen, M/M, Prompt Fic, oz graffixation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-30
Updated: 2011-04-30
Packaged: 2017-10-18 20:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Toby's behaviour has Chris reminiscing about life before Oz and ever since.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Animal Behaviour

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the wonderful Oz Graffixation challenge at oz_graffiti. In a nutshell it was an open call to the fandom to participate in some creatively inspiring interaction with one another. The first round had people signing up as artists and/or writers. The artists then went to work creating an array of drawings, videos, banners etc. Once those were done and presented to the community the writers picked three they wanted to write a story for and one of those was then assigned. In the end each picture/video/banner was posted to the community with a story (and a bonus drabble by cmk418). I had a lot of fun not only writing for this but seeing what everyone else came up with. Once again I was reminded how rich this fandom is and how strong it's still going years after the fact.
> 
> Original drawing/drabble/story can be found here: http://oz-graffiti.livejournal.com/45842.html
> 
> My story was inspired by drawing by haru776.

[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/levitatethis/pic/000r6200/)

  
  
_“Every fuckin’ beatin’ I’m grateful for. Every fuckin’ one of them  
Get all the trust beat outta you. And you know what the fuckin’ world is.”_   
**-Swearengen,** **Deadwood**   


  
“Don’t fuckin’ touch me.”

Chris swallows hard. Turning half on his heels he watches Toby walk away, pulling out of an otherwise firm grip.

 _It’s a beautiful day in the neighbourhood, a beautiful day in the—_

He catches an observant Hill’s not so inconspicuous and highly amused stare. As much as Chris loves to put on a show there are times he wishes everyone would mind their own goddamn business. He glares his challenging disapproval at the uninvited attention, mollified that Hill is smart enough to roll away without so much as a sarcastic quip in his wake.

Looking back at his pod—Toby on the inside, door shutting behind—Chris readies himself for what is sure to be an unnecessarily long day. And all it took was one joke (and not even a funny one at that if he’s being honest) to set it off. Boundaries made of flexible yet rigid perimeters have always marked the contours of their relationship. Chris likes pushing at the edges even if it means risking a blowback that knocks them both on their asses. It means one less battle to fight next time.

Ramblings about domesticity, implications of a default marriage between them (possibly said more condescendingly than intended, but he’s been married four times so _what the fuck?_ ), is apparently still a line not to be crossed with Beecher. Chris meant to rile him up, ruffle Toby’s more proper feathers for daring to be too chatty about the late and not so great Genevieve (but he’ll keep that opinion to himself for right now) following a much needed visit with Gary and Holly. As expected, Toby’s hurt feelings got the better of him. Now they’re on the outs.

The thing is Chris remembers the past. He may not talk about it at nauseam, but he’s ever mindful of it. One step always informs the next. It’s the only way to stay upright and move forward.

Long days lead to long nights.

There’s something to be said for pattern behaviour.

  
 ************ ********** ********** ********** ************

  
The silent treatment.

A ‘can’t-be-bothered-to-deal-with-you-right-now,’ attitude.

Leveling an ‘am I supposed to be impressed’ stare.

The existence of not existing.

Being deemed as either worthy or an obstacle, a means to an end or a nuisance.

Figure out your place and learn to live with it.

  
 ************ ********** ********** ********** ************

  
Bonnie had a cat Chris didn’t pay much attention to (which returned the lack of interest threefold) until marriage meant all three of them were sharing the same square footage (two times over).

Chris would curiously watch how Bunnicula (a name begat of Bonnie and her love for kids books colliding) padded around their place, treating each room like he owned it and they were merely visitors he allowed to crash over sometimes. Mostly Bunnicula kept to himself, for all appearances enjoying the kind of independence Chris relished for himself but couldn’t always pull off. Sitting on the couch he’d lock eyes with the animal and stretch out his hand, silently calling it over. It stared at him in return. Sometimes it graced him with a walk by fur grazing, other times Chris might as well have been invisible.

It was obvious they both loved Bonnie (the cat cast predatory eyes on Chris the first few times they crossed paths and always sided closer to her) but there was also an inexplicable understanding between them. On occasion when Bonnie got smotheringly cutesy with Bunnicula the cat would linger his steely gaze on her then turn to Chris as if to resignedly say, _‘I love her but can you believe this shit? Just make sure you leave some food in the bowl,’_ before turning tail and walking out of the room, leaving Chris to think, Tell me about it.

Unlike the dog Chris’ stepfather brought home when Chris was ten (a gesture done out of misguided parenting and blackmail not love), Bunnicula wasn’t hard up for attention. He amused himself more often than not and followed a daily itinerary shared with no one else. When he was bored he simply went on his own way; anger had him hissing and clawing, and he could sulk with the best of them, emitting a whining meow that gnawed at Chris’ nerves while simultaneously raising sympathetic attention.

It’s that similar independent streak for self reliance that first drew Chris to Toby.

Against the odds, in the face of ingrained expectations, Toby had proven to be anything but the pathetic clinger Vern thought privilege had bred in the bone. Not a doormat or a broken weakling, Toby is resourceful and smart, just shy of cunning. Experience has taught him to protect himself. Tied to his moody disposition it makes him close to a handful Chris can’t always get a read on.

Love and frustration. Bastard brothers.

And today is only the latest chapter.

Toby works Oz with impressive finesse. Although it may fall short of perfection, the accomplishment rate is high enough that he calls on it again and again. Chris first suspected then bore witness to it in the way Toby talks with Sister Pete, approaches McManus and engages with Murphy. He notes the way Toby interacts with the other prisoners and the similarities and contrasts with how Toby treats him on any given day.

It’s that bloody cat all over again.

Toby’s moods are like Bunnicula’s attitude, but where the cat was low maintenance, Toby requires a fucking handbook.

As far as today goes, Toby has decided to ignore him. Well that’s only half true. Toby’s _made a point_ of not speaking with Chris, not acknowledging his presence beyond a huff of breath and a roll of his eyes when Chris moves too close, not replying when Chris pushes his buttons for any— _any_ —reaction.

Still, Chris has caught the quick movement of a stormy glance his way more than once. He’s seen the slight flush of pink rise up the back of Toby’s neck when their proximity was negligible and noted how Toby did not move to another seat but deliberately stayed glued to his chair as if a battle of wills was being decided and Toby was settling in for a full on fight.

And now Toby’s sitting next to him on the bottom bunk, his countenance half dejected and half determined to talk about what’s had his panties in a twist all day. He’s blabbering on and on ( _and on_ ) and Chris is taking deep breaths in a bid to stop himself from saying something that will really piss Toby off because as annoyed as Chris is with being forced to share his feelings, he _has_ missed being _with_ Toby all day. He’s missed the mutual affection he’s easily chided in others while growing up as a sign of pathetic weakness when getting your rocks off was about some sweet talk and a few timely thrusts. _This_ is so much more than that and if he wants it he has to earn it.

Another memory of Bonnie’s cat suddenly unfurls itself in Chris’ mind, one of when Bunnicula coveted nothing but Chris’ undivided attention.

No matter how much it got on Chris’ nerves, despite attempts to escape the unwaveringly persistent animal, Chris eventually learned the only way to handle being in the crosshairs of the feline was to placate its mewling orders until enough time was considered put in and he was free to go.

Too bad the passive aggressive approach doesn’t work with Toby. No, this requires a humbling stance best conveyed by Chris sitting with his back against the pod’s plexiglass wall, his legs hanging over the edge of the bunk, shoulders dropped and head bowed, staring at his hands in his lap while Toby offloads the world of hurt that seems to infuse every cell of his body. Reaching out to Toby (on Toby’s terms) means a slight nod of Chris’ head, a murmur, a few short clipped sentences, then (eventually maintained) eye contact.

The final step, as decisiveness flickers in Toby’s eyes (the decision to accept Chris’ reproach, to shift the walls between them to the left, to end this stalemate) is to initiate a touch, something as simple as his hand on Toby’s shoulder or forearm. If Toby doesn’t pull away—like now, as he scoots an inch closer to Chris—the third act in this cat and mouse play is begun.

 **  
********** ********** ********** ********** ************

  
Darkness levels the playing field.

The fight escapes external forces and comes down to two men locked into a pod, tied to emotions and thoughts that cannot be reduced to black and white terms.

Although an element of uncertainty marred the ground between Chris and Bunnicula, when the cat accepted a person into his fold there was a show of loyalty and love second to none. Or maybe it was just the easiest way to scratch an itch. There came a time the cat would trot along the back of the couch and tentatively step on Chris’ shoulders, nuzzle his neck and purr softly against his ear. Clamouring down to Chris’ lap, the cat would stretch his limbs, belly up, and gaze at Chris, commanding to be pet.

Truth be told, Chris was happy to oblige. Sure it could be seen as accepting a submissive position, but it filled an emptiness inside for comfort, to be wanted, to be pertinent; these things which eluded him often and which he tried to dismiss as bullshit all the while longing for it.

Toby arches up from beneath, attempting to catch his lips with a kiss, but Chris pulls back, reveling instead in the friction of their overheated bodies (damp beneath mussed clothing) pressed together and Toby ardently yearning, almost pathetic in his display (if Chris were cruel to define it as such, but he’s too hard himself to go there).

The lead up of the day has left no doubt they both want this, but Chris has a final lesson to teach, a reminder Toby should heed for future reference. Two people call the shots in this pod. What may pass on the outside, while tolerated at times, is an exception to the rule. Chris doesn’t like having to repeat himself, but he takes pleasure in the reprimand when he can coax it. Public humiliation, innocent as it may seem, carries a price, simple as it ultimately is.

He drags his tongue along the hollow of Toby’s neck and smiles at the contented sigh that strolls along Toby’s lips. Chris sucks the skin between his teeth eliciting a sharp hiss and a thrust of Toby’s hips.

“You can be such a pussy, you know that?” Chris whispers harshly, half laughing, half cold, as he pulls Toby’s arms above his head and pins them to the mattress, forcing Toby into a helplessly vulnerable position.

He feels Toby immediately tense and repositions himself so he can stare down at him without losing leverage of his restrictive grip. If it’s possible to see colour drain from Toby’s face, this would be it. There’s a faint hint of resistance in Toby’s arms and Chris knows he wants out, but that’s not in the cards. He tightens his hold and stares unblinking eyes at Toby, letting a smirk kick up the corner of his mouth.

Toby doesn’t like being at the mercy of others. Chris doesn’t like being dicked around. Their language is derived from a power struggle set in motion long before they met. Chris is not letting go until Toby _gets it_ and the fight or flight response Chris senses in Toby’s rigid limbs appeals to his more base desires. He has no interest in hurting Toby, however. Not when Toby’s eyes are still hooded with lust and his lips are licked wet; not while Toby’s heart is pounding hard enough in his chest Chris can feel it like his own.

As if in response to knowing better what complicates Chris’ intentions, Toby relaxes and lets out a slow breath. Chris gives him a quizzical look and Toby leans up taking Chris’ lips between his. The kiss starts off soft then grows deeper, and the taste of Toby, their tongues running along each other, tightens Chris’ groin and he groans.

Toby lays back and matter-of-factly tones, “So says the needy bitch.”

Chris freezes.

Toby’s always had a mouth too smart for his own good. This is more than an offhand insult meant to stroke Chris’ temper. This is personal. As personal as Chris’ jab at him and the bulls-eye is the truth at its core. Toby isn’t Chris’ world, but assertions and actions to the contrary aside, he’s the sun at its centre, the moon pulling his tide. Chris is bound to Toby, to his equal and opposite reaction, to the flow of his step and tilt of his axis. Chris feeds off Toby, craves his attention, his love. He’s transfixed by him. The predator obsessed with his prey.

 _Give us this day our daily bread and pray for all us sinners—so we don’t get caught._

It’s the way of the world. Who are either of them kidding?

Chris presses his nails into Toby’s hands, enough to see him clench his jaw in return. “Who you calling a bitch?” Chris draws out suggestively with some attitude. He flexes his fingers allowing Toby to lower his hands to cup either side of Chris’ face.

Their gaze holds, even after Chris presses a light kiss to Toby’s forehead. All the while Toby gently strokes the side of his face. Absolution for them both. Toby is looking at him like nothing else exists beyond them, beyond this darkened four-by-four square. He’s looking at Chris like he can peer inside at the nooks and crannies, at all the hidden compartments, and actually likes what he sees; or at least accepts it.

Chris sees it in his eyes.

In this moment Chris is all Toby wants.

It’s everything Chris needs.

 _Everything._   


  



End file.
